Miracle
by Space-facade
Summary: A Series - I'll finish this one! My version of 'resurrecting Stephen'. Will eventually be slash. Reviews equal happy dances!
1. Memories

**Title: - **Memories

**Author: - **Bella

**Rating: - **PG

**Characters: - **Nick, mentions of Stephen

**Warnings: - **Angst. Spoilers for end of Series 2

**A/N: - **Part 1 of a series. I decided to have a go at the whole 'resurrecting Stephen' thing. This would be the introduction. Not Beta-read, any mistakes are my own.

**Memories**

It has been months since Stephen's gruesome death, four months and three days to be precise. But to Nick it seems longer. Long days stretch ahead, twisting into even longer nights, nights when he wakes gasping, sweat covered, scared to close his eyes and see the scene the inside that room because it seems to be permanently etched on the inside of his eyelids. It seems odd to him now, that once time had passed quickly, flown even, because now, in the empty void that is his world without Stephen, time seems to have lost all meaning. Nick worries it might just stop altogether. But what worries him more is that he sometimes thinks that might not be such a bad thing.

He spends his days as normal, working on the anomalies, encouraging Connor, helping Abby, sniping at Lester. Life goes on for them. And the others seem to think that he's moved on as well. But he hasn't. Nick has never been very good at letting go of the past, and now is proving to be no exception. He holds it together at work, for the simple reason that they need him. They need him to lead them and to hold them together. He thinks he's doing a surprisingly good job, when he's falling apart inside.

Yes, work is bearable. Just. It's going home that seems to be the problem. Everything he sees reminds him of Stephen. This photograph. That book. The artefacts on the sideboard. And every time he sees them it hurts. Because Stephen has always been by his side, always standing there, and now he's gone and Nick finds that all these reminders of him are no comfort at all. He knows that it's stupid but he still lives in hope that somehow, by some insane miracle, Stephen can be returned to him.

That all goes out of the window the day that the package arrives. Photographs. Nick remembers finally getting his arse into gear and sending off some films for developing after almost a year of not bothering. When he flicks through them, he finds that they are almost all of him, Stephen, or him and Stephen. There's one particular photograph, taken on the final night of their last trip to South America. It's of Stephen and him, leaning against a tree in the gathering twilight, arms just touching, Stephen's head thrown back as he laughs. Neither of them had even realised it had been taken.

And just for one moment, looking at the picture, he can remember that night so vividly, as if it were happening right now. The smell of smoke, the crispness of the evening air, the sound of Stephen laughing, the heat of his arm, and just that warm, happy glow he'd felt inside.

But it slips away, just as suddenly as it comes, and Nick squeezes his eyes shut for once, willing the image to stay. But still it fades. And that's when it finally hits home. That Stephen won't be coming back. There will be no miracle. Not this time. Stephen's gone and he won't be returning, his life has slipped away, as easily as the image has slipped from Nick's mind. That's all that Stephen is now, and Nick knows he has to accept it. He's just scattered images, remembered in a few seconds of clarity before they fade away into the ether. All he has left are the things he remembers, and the things Stephen left behind.

Just memories.


	2. Void

Title: - Void

**Title: - **Void

**Author: - **Bella

**Rating: -** PG

**Characters: - **Stephen (will eventually be Nick/Stephen)

**Warnings: - **Spoilers for Series 2. Something odd happened with the tenses in places.

**A/N: - **Written after a depressing couple of days. Do excuse the fact that it might seem a bit odd in places. Thanks to reggietate for the Beta read.

**Void**

_The ground has vanished, there's a rush of freezing air and the empty void is spinning. Down is up and up is down. He can't even tell if there are sides any more. Everything is skewed, strands of reality and fiction inter-twined like spaghetti. And he's falling, he's falling fast. He doesn't know why, or where, or how, or when. All he knows is that he's scared. Scared that no-one will catch him. Scared he'll never stop._

The first breath back is the most painful thing Stephen has ever experienced. His body's reflexes engage in battle as air attempts to enter his lungs and filth tries to force its way out. Normal coughing and breathing are both out of the question. His body won't allow it. Ignoring the tearing pain, he settles instead for retching; throwing up dirt, dust and all manner of other things. He doesn't think he wants to know.

With that finished, he keels back over onto his side, gasping for air like some kind of beached whale. It's not a flattering position. Everything inside him feels like it's been forced through a very tight rubber tube. His muscles ache, his lungs are cramping, his head is throbbing and right now, he doesn't even want to THINK about how his stomach feels. Or the fact that he appears to have gone blind. He hopes it's just really, really dark.

Pain receding slightly, he struggles upwards into a sitting position. All his senses are on red-alert; his nerve endings feeling almost raw. Eyes straining, he fights to make out a shape, any shape, anything to prove that this isn't blindness. But he can't quite manage it. All he can see is velvety blackness, unlike anything he has ever experienced. There are no chinks of light, no fragments of movement and more importantly, no stars. Wherever he is, thinks Stephen, at least it isn't exposed.

In a bid to work out his surroundings, he tries his other three useful senses. Sound reveals nothing. As far as Stephen can tell, all around him is absolute silence. The only thing breaking the blanket of quiet is the rhythmic thump of his own heart beat. There are no scents in the air either, only a slightly musty aroma and air so cold it seems to burn the insides of Stephen's nostrils.

Lastly he tries touch, and pulling an old wrapper out of the pocket of his jeans, he leaves it on the floor. It's an old trick he learnt, leave a marker so you always know where you started from. Something in the recesses of his brain is suggesting that he's missed out a vital detail of this plan, and that it won't work unless he remembers, but he firmly shuts it up. Then he tries crawling sideways, feeling all around him with his hands. After moving about 30 feet to one side, he concludes that either this is the world's biggest room or he is stuck in a really weird dream. He decides to move a few more feet, just in case. Oddly, he feels incredibly drowsy, his limbs feel as though they are made of lead, and he can tell that his movements are sluggish. He longs to just curl up and sleep but instinct tells him this would be a very bad idea indeed. Then he feels something crackle under the palm of his hand. Picking it up, it turns out to be the sweet wrapper. Stephen freezes, electric shocks running up and down his spine. Fully awake again. Something is wrong here. Something is really very wrong. He tries to backtrack, to scan through his last movements, to check for any mistakes.

But he realises that suddenly he can't remember. He knows he went sideways but he can't remember which way, he can't remember how far he went, he can't even remember if it was him who put the sweet wrapper down. Everything is suddenly so confused and his head is spinning. He can barely remember anything at all; it's becoming a struggle to recall his own name. The only thing sharp in his blurred mind is the image of a pair of light blue eyes full of shock and pain staring pleadingly at him out of the blackness. He feels that there is a story that goes with those eyes, something important and he strains everything trying to remember. But he can't. Memories are slipping away like wisps of smoke, uncatchable, floating out into the void around him. His whole life swirling in the blackness.

Then the pain starts to tear through him, not physical as such, but emotional pain, so intense he wonders if his heart is literally breaking. Sudden vivid emotions, happiness, grief, love, sadness, they all rip through him but he doesn't know where they come from, can't remember why he felt them. He always wanted to let go of the past and move on, and clearly something somewhere has taken him a little too literally. He hasn't left his past behind, he has quite literally lost it. And without his memories, without his past, he isn't Stephen Hart anymore.

Then one final sensation manifests itself. Pain. Pure, white hot agony and it's unbearable. But still he can't remember. His mind has become one massive blank space, as though the previously full storage-rooms have been suddenly been emptied. As the final throb of pain flares through him and fades, he is left an empty shell, feelings and memories, his entire past, released in a supernova of sensation. And he decides that it isn't worth it.

So he closes his eyes and just keeps falling.


	3. Salvation

**Title: - **Salvation

**Author: - **Bella

**Rating: -** PG

**Characters: -** Nick

**Warnings: -** None!

**A/N: -** Third part in a series; follows Memories and Void.

**Salvation**

Almost seven months had passed since Stephen's demise, and though it hadn't been easy, and he still wouldn't have said he was anywhere near over it, Nick had decided he was coping. Indeed, there were mornings such as this one, when he had a very rare and much celebrated day off, when he could almost have said he felt happy.

It was his first day off since the funeral, and had come about more because Lester had ordered him out of the ARC, as opposed to him actually wanting the time. But now, sitting in his kitchen, the only sound the chirping of birds in the garden, and the sun warming his back and throwing dappled patterns over the kitchen floor, he was thinking this maybe wasn't such a bad idea.

After all, the atmosphere at the ARC wasn't exactly great. Despite trying to ignore, what he knew were extremely unfair, feelings of resentment towards Stephen's 'replacement', Nick hadn't quite managed to keep an even tone with the man, and as result their relationship was tempestuous at best. Jenny was also still presenting problems, and of course, there was still the ever-present irritation that was Lester lurking behind the chrome and glass walls of his office.

Feeling a new relief at being away from it all, even for a mere twenty-four hours, Nick idled through the hallway to the front door, studiously ignoring both the slight twang of pain that hit him at the sight of Stephen's photograph on a small wooden table and the twinge of guilt that he hadn't quite had the strength to remove it yet. Bending to pick up the post, he flicked through the pile of dull letters. Trash, trash, trash, bill, trash, trash, trash, university thing, bill, trash…He paused, examining the last letter in the pile. A slim, cream envelope, made of watermarked quality paper, and addressed to a Mr N. R. Cutter. But that wasn't the interesting part. Stamped at the top was a black logo, with the words 'The Federation of Inter-time Continuums' imprinted below. And the black ink of the logo, however smudged, was quite clearly supposed to be an anomaly.

Having never been a man of particular finesse or patience, Nick tore it open, burning with curiosity. Unfolding the sheet of paper inside, he began to read.

_Mr Alexander S Burke,_

_29 Alvaston Road, _

_Herefordshire. _

_17__th__ May 2008_

_Dear Professor Cutter,_

_My name is Alexander Burke, and I am head of UK branch of the Federation of Inter-time Continuums, originally based in the States._

_I am writing to inform you of the current whereabouts and status of one Mr Stephen J Hart, born 15__th__ October 1976, taken into custody 23__rd__ February 2008. You are not expected to know the details of the removal and containment of Mr Hart, nor indeed, are you expected to know anything of our company._

_Problems have been arising, as regards the above mentioned Mr Hart, and just recently have taken a far more serious turn. As it is, we require your presence at a meeting in order to resolve aforementioned problems. _

_We are based on the outskirts of Herefordshire, and are not on the map, but directions have already been programmed into a special Satellite Navigation System, which you will find enclosed. My assistants, Mr Leek and Miss Steele (you may know of them), will meet you at the gates, and you are expected at 9 am sharp. Please assure you are punctual._

_Regards_

_A.Burke_

Nick finished reading and backed slowly into the living room. Slumping down into his favourite armchair, he proceeded to read the letter, once, twice, three times more. He was sure it was probably inappropriate but at that moment, the strongest overriding emotion he felt was just pure irritation. The clipped, condescending, presumptuous tone of the letter was making his hackles quite literally rise. This man supposedly wanted his help, yet he was ordering him around like some kind of untrained dog. How did he know Nick didn't have something hideously important scheduled for that day? Albeit, he didn't, but the point still stood.

Biting his lip, he thought about the implications of this news. According to this man, Stephen was still alive. That was a possibility that Nick didn't even dare let himself think about. Of course, there was also the very real possibility of it being a fake. The mentions of Leek and that Caroline woman of Connor's were crude and obviously couldn't be true. Yet Nick had learnt a while back now, to not just to dismiss things straight out of hand. He thought of Connor's favourite mantra. Nothing is impossible, just very very improbable.

So there was a good chance that this whole thing was some kind of sick joke. But there was also a slim chance that it wasn't. The fact that he was even considering said slim chance made Nick 

wondered if he was ever so slightly stir-crazy. But if that slim chance turned out to be the truth, well, he could get Stephen back. Nick knew that if he didn't go to this meeting then for the rest of his life he'd stand there going 'What if? What if?' His inability to let go of the past would probably haunt him until his last breath. It wasn't a pleasant thought.

Bending to retrieve the envelope from the floor, he slid a slim, metallic device out. The letters T.F.I.C were stamped on the outside. It was clearly top of the range and Nick wondered what Connor would make of it. No matter really. From where he was standing, he only had one choice. To use another of Connor's favourite phrases…

He was going in.


	4. TFIC

Title: - T.F.I.C

Author: - Bella

Rating: - PG13

Characters: - New male character, mentions of most of the usual.

Warnings: - None

A/N:- Fourth part in a Series, follows Salvation. X-Posted to Primevalfanfic.

**T.F.I.C**

It was a sunny day in Herefordshire. Outside everything was at peace, birds chirped, the sun shone, and an old lady on a bicycle with a wicker basket cycled down a country lane. Inside, however, it was quite a different matter. Inside, where the warm cream walls of the little thatched cottage morphed into the cold, sterile corridors of T.F.I.C, havoc reigned.

In his office, Mr Alexander Burke, head of T.F.I.C, was pacing up and down in his office, shouting directions into a mobile phone, and executing a perfect, 180-degree turn whenever he ran out of floor space.

In the entrance area (aforementioned little thatched cottage), a team of cleaners worked hard in an attempt to clean the area up and remove some of the offensive graffiti.

In the live-in quarters, Caroline Steele rushed round getting ready and fighting to control the world's worst hangover. Oliver Leek waited downstairs, oily and perfect in a suit, repeatedly checking his watch.

In the cell control room, a team of experts fought to keep a Mr Stephen Hart stable and alive, but also unconscious. It was proving quite a task.

Outside in the lane, a silver SUV pulled up and a scruffy-looking Professor with sandy blonde hair emerged. He rubbed his eyes and took a look around, seemingly confused by what he saw. He pulled a piece of crumpled paper out of his pocket and scanned it, before resuming the examination of his surroundings, looking completely blank, and rather adorable.

Back in the office, Alexander Burke glanced out of the window, did a double-take, swore violently and pressed a button on an intercom.

And throughout the facility a voice rang, loud and clear, out of the speaker phones.

'He's arrived'


	5. Secrecy and Madness

**Title: -** Secrecy and Madness

**Author: -** Bella

**Rating: -** PG

**Characters: -** Nick, Burke, mentions of Stephen

**Warnings: -** Language. But only the one word.

**A/N: -** Fifth part in a series, follows T.F.I.C. X-posted to primevalfanfic.

**Secrecy and Madness**

Nick hated following orders. Really really hated it. He always felt like somebody's puppet, dancing helplessly on strings to their own little tune. Lester had applied the term 'maverick' to him several times, and in the rare moments when Nick had taken the time to examine his own character, he had had to admit, the man, much as he disliked him, might have a point. His independence and stubbornness were becoming particular problems since Stephen's death. Nick was coming more and more to realise how much he had relied upon Stephen to cover for him when he just couldn't be arsed i.e. with students and paperwork, and to clean up for him when he messed up, i.e. with colleagues, Lester being a prominent example. And now he was gone, Nick had to deal with those aspects of his life entirely on his own; Connor, sharp as he was, was no substitute for Stephen, and Nick was starting to realise he would do pretty much anything to get his best friend back.

And that was the sole reason for Nick finding himself doing as he was told and turning up on time at the given address for a meeting with a typically mysterious man. He wasn't sure what he had expected upon turning up, but it wasn't the sight that met his eyes as he jumped out of the SUV. The sight that met his eyes was an idyllic thatched cottage, standing in a sun-dappled, hedge-lined country lane complete with a granny on a bike with wickerwork basket attached. As opposed to the high-tech, modernised, sore thumb of a building that he had expected. Yet he had double, triple checked the instructions he had received in that letter and unless his ability to follow orders had just completely diminished through lack of use, then he was in the right place. At the right time. So what the hell was going on?

Ten minutes later, Nick was starting to get a creeping feeling that this really was some ridiculous and frankly, quite sick prank. Clearly there was no secret organisation based anywhere near here, the only sign of life now was an old man in the garden of the cottage two doors down, digging a vegetable patch and complete with the proverbial woolly green jumper and pipe. Feeling like a complete blockhead for even considering this as reality, he spun on his heel and made for the car. He had reached the vehicle and was groping in the pocket for his keys before he heard the footsteps behind him. The feet were moving sharply, clipping forward in a determined manner and Nick felt a stab of fear that was completely irrational. Or so he thought, until the possessor of the clipped footsteps spoke.

'Going so soon, Professor?'

Leek. Nick froze. The only thing moving was his heart which seemed to pumping blood around his body at twice the normal speed. Slowly he turned round, not really wanting to lay eyes on the figure 

behind him, but needing to see to prove to himself that he wasn't going mad. And unfortunately he wasn't. Standing behind him, in the flesh, slimy and crawling as ever, was Oliver Leek.

Nick leant heavily against the car door. This wasn't happening. This COULDN'T be happening. A world where dinosaurs came through rips in time, that, Nick had managed, somehow, to accept. But not this. No bloody way. People did not come back to life. That just didn't happen. This man was dead. Leek was dead. He had killed him. And yet he was standing in front of him, slimily resplendent in a suit, without a mark on him.

'Well, Professor, are you coming or are you going to stand there and gawp a little longer? I'm sorry if this is a bit difficult for you to accept. But then you never could see the bigger picture could you? Unlike your wonderful wife.'

Normally, Nick knew his volatile temper would be flaring up and he would be restraining himself from punching the man in front of him, but right now he couldn't feel anything. His head was buzzing slightly and try as he might, Leek was correct, he couldn't accept the reality of a world that had completely spun off its axis. He wasn't sure if that made him small-minded or whether it made him sane.

'After you, Professor.'

Leek words were laced with disdain and hatred and he added an extra dose of sarcasm to the word 'Professor'. Nick had serious doubts about turning his back on Leek, yet apparently, within the small thatched cottage the man had gestured at, were the answers he now needed. So he turned and walked up the path, pushing open the butter-yellow door at the end of the path, and ducking his head slightly as he entered the cottage.

The sight that met his eyes had clearly once been a pleasant, well-ordered room. The walls were painted a warm cream and there were old, creaky floorboards covered, in places, with sprawling rugs in oriental colours. The rest of the room was also tastefully decorated, the only out of place object being a plain oak door, to which was nailed a sign that read, 'TFIC' and then underneath, 'The Federation of Inter-time Continuums'.

However, the room appeared to be in a state of disarray, a couple of pictures were slashed, there were deep scratches gored into the woodwork of the mantel piece, some of the upholstery was ripped and most noticeably, the sign on the door was scratched so badly it had almost been rendered unreadable, and underneath, in its place, the words 'TFIC – The Fuckwits In Charge' had been scored in uneven lettering.

It was safe to say Nick was incredibly confused. More so when the oak door swung open to reveal a clinical-looking corridor and he was pointed through it by Leek, who just couldn't seem to resist accompanying the gesture with a sneering look. He stepped through and the door swung shut with a strangely mechanical clang, leaving him ensconced in a very different world.

Now he was the one following, as Leek marched down corridor after corridor. Images flashed through Nick's mind; scientists in lab-coats, locked doors marked 'PRIVATE – KEEP OUT', white rooms, bizarre metals instruments, air that was so sterilised and controlled it seemed almost 

synthetic, and a labyrinth of corridors that lead further and further down. The buzzing in his head was growing louder.

Then suddenly Leek stopped dead. Cutter almost walked into him. Leek offered him a fake smile, before turning and marching passed him back the way they'd just come. Now Nick was no expert tracker like Stephen or the bloke who had replaced him, but even he could tell that they were retracing the steps they had just taken. They kept on walking until they were back at the oak door.

'Look, wha…'

Nick had had enough of being fucked around, but he only had the time to get out one and a half words before Leek was speaking again. Pointing up a set of stairs to the right, he said,

'Up there and first door on your left. I know you don't show respect much, Professor, but do try and remember to knock before you enter.'

This time, Nick did have to restrain himself from punching the man, only the need to know what was going on and hence the need not to get kicked out, stopping him. He started up the stairs. Turned left. Found the first door. The office of a Mr A. Burke, according to the sign. He considered Leek's advice. Ignored it. And entered without knocking.

Inside the office was no better than outside it. There were no personal touches, absolutely nothing to even suggest that it was used. It reminded him eerily of Lester's office in the ARC. The only odd thing was the lacy net curtains hanging in the windows. Presumably to keep up appearances from the outside. The man sitting at the desk in front of Nick was an oddity in himself. He had pale, wrinkled skin that looked like it had rarely seen the sun, his eyes were obscured by thick, pebbly glasses, and his hair was thinning but a startling black, almost definitely dyed. And yet somehow he exuded an aura of control and superiority, and it was only this that stopped Nick from physically forcing the man to give him some answers.

'Nicholas Cutter, I presume.'

The man's voice was deep, and a little throaty, and again it practically dripped with authority. Nick toyed with correcting his name (the only person that called him Nicholas was his mother), but decided against it as the man began to speak again.

'My name is Alexander Burke. I am head of The Federation of Inter-time Continuums. Do you have any idea what we do?'

Nick could only shake his head. Burke looked a little disappointed.

'I thought a man like you might have at least TRIED to do some homework on us. Still, no matter, I can explain. The Federation of Inter-time Continuums, TFIC for short, originated in America in 1964. The company was set up by my grandfather, Jonathon Burke, for the sole purpose of monitoring and controlling the phenomenon I believe you call Anomalies. These 'anomalies' are, to put it simply, rips, small earthquakes in the fabric that makes up the timeline. When time was created, it was designed to run in a straight line, with a beginning, an end, and a middle. Everything was meant to stay ordered, with each event and each object in its own place. Unfortunately, with the appearance of these anomalies, all of that was threatened. Scientists of the time, like my grandfather, knew, that 

if the occurrences were not closely monitored and controlled by the right people, it may bring about the end of time and the Universe as we know it. The Federation monitors the world, keeping close checks on when and where the anomalies appear. We either eradicate creature threats ourselves or we make sure that the eradicating is done by people that we know are fairly trustworthy. Recently however, we have had more of a problem. Namely that people have started wandering through the anomalies. We knew about your wife from the start, but as one woman with a limited knowledge, we knew there was little damage that she could do. But in the last six months, more and more people have started crossing the borders between this era and others. And since then we have been detecting more and more anomalies that are becoming increasingly volatile. For some reason, human presence in the past is hugely problematic and appears to be considerably weakening the time continuum. In an attempt to solve this problem we took into custody a Mr Oliver Leek, a Miss Caroline Steele, a Miss Claudia Brown, and a Mr Thomas Ryan. Apparently we had been slightly misinformed, for though the problems decreased they did not completely cease. We were then informed by a source I am not at liberty to reveal, that we should contain a Mr Stephen Hart for reasons that I am also not at liberty to reveal. We took him in on the 23rd of February 2008, and have since kept him in custody at the centre. However, since his capture the anomalies have become worse than ever, Mr Hart himself has become highly unstable, and we've begun to encounter problems that we've never had before. Quite frankly, Mr Cutter, we fear for his life. And that is where you come in. I am told that an emotional reminder may be just what he needs to bring him back to reality.'

Burke reeled this off in under five minutes, with little more expression in his voice than a goldfish might have had. Nick tried and failed to digest even a little of what he was saying. He swallowed hard, trying to remember how to breathe, completely and utterly disorientated. He wondered if Mr Burke was totally crazy. His mouth was so dry he could barely form a word, let alone reply. After what felt like an eternity he managed to speak.

'What?'

It was more a croak than anything else, and was hardly eloquent but at the moment it was the best he could come up with. Unfortunately Burke seemed to be misinterpreting his confusion for simple disbelief.

'I can understand that you might have trouble believing all of this,' he began, in a tone that suggested he didn't understand at all, 'but I can assure you, every word is the truth. And if you need more proof, take a look at this.'

He swung his computer screen around, displaying an image of perfectly square white room with a ledge running down one side of it, on which a figure lay. It reminded Nick exactly of a prison cell. A few keys were tapped, and the image zoomed in on the figure. Nick's heart was almost beating its way out of his chest as he recognised certain features. Dark brown hair; artfully ruffled. Ridiculously long dark lashes. Defined jaw-line and high cheekbones. The buzzing in Nick's head grew louder still. It was Stephen.

'It's your friend, Mr Hart,' a voice interjected.

Stephen, who was dead.

'Mr Cutter?'

Stephen, who had been dead for nearly six months.

'Mr Cutter?'

Stephen, who Nick had seen ripped to pieces.

'Professor Cutter!'

Stephen.

The buzzing grew to unbearable volume and Nick retained consciousness for just long enough to feel the crack as his head hit the floor.

Burke rolled his eyes. Palaeontologists. He pressed a button on the intercom.

'MEDIC!'


	6. Back From The Dead

**Thanks to Elysiumx, Xanthiae/lilblubox, Itzika, Fruitbat00 and Stephzofab for reviewing so far!**

**Title: -** Back From The Dead

**Author: -** Bella

**Rating: -** PG-13

**Warnings: -** Language (mild, though)

**A/N: -** 6th part in a series, follows Memories, Void, Salvation, TFIC, Secrecy and Madness. Very special thanks to The Big Brother for the stick poking to get this finished, and, if I'm honest, a good half of the plot line, and The Dad for the Beta read. Italics represent Stephen's POV.

**Back From The Dead**

The first things Nick became aware of as he slowly drifted back to consciousness were a stabbing, knife-like pain in his left temple and an almost overwhelming urge to be sick. He shoved himself upright on one arm, turned and violently wretched over the side of the narrow, padded bench he was lying on.

Several minutes later, his stomach feeling like it had been suction-cleaned; he swung his legs sideways and sat up properly. His head still hurt and the room was still slowly spinning, but the threat of imminent death and horrible illness seemed to have faded for now. Looking around the small cubicle in which he was enclosed, he blinked, disorientated. The place looked like a prison cell; white padded bench, white floor, white door, white walls. He glanced at the ceiling and was not overly surprised to see security cameras framed against the (what else) white ceiling.

And that's when it came rushing back. The CCTV footage of that other cell. The one that contained his previously dead, and apparently resurrected best friend. Fuck. He shoved himself up, wobbling a little when the room jerked sideways and staggered across to the door. Banging on it, voice hoarser than usual, he yelled.

'Let me out! Look, what is going on here? You can't jus' lock me up like some kind of common crimi…'

The door swung open, and a nurse appeared.

'Sit DOWN, Mr Cutter. You're in no fit state to be causing such a fuss.'

She took hold of his arm in a firm, motherly way and attempted to steer him back towards the bench. Angrily, Nick shook her off.

'No! I do not want to sit down and be looked after. I am FINE, can't even feel my head. I just want to know what the HELL is going on here'

'All in good time, Professor'

The clipped tones of Alexander Burke rang throughout the room. The man appeared unruffled by the events that had unfolded and cast a quick, appraising glance over Nick's head. He grunted, seemingly unimpressed by whatever injury he had just sustained. Nick opened his mouth in another attempt to pry an explanation from the man.

'I just want an…'

'Explanation, I KNOW. You just want to know what's going on, you just want to understand, I have GRASPED that fact. But first I need you to do me a favour, Professor. '

Nick visibly bristled.

'And why on earth should I do you a favour? You haven't done anything for me excep' invite me here, play some infantile, and quite frankly, sick, practical joke and knock me out. I'm not doin' you ANY favours, I just want an explanation, and then I am leaving.'

Burke sighed and looked at Nick as though he were some particularly irritating five year-old.

'Firstly, Professor, I am insulted that you think I would waste my time playing practical jokes on you, to be honest, I have far, far better and more important things to do with my time. Secondly, you keep insisting on explanations, but if you could be so kind to take a few seconds to think then you'd remember that I did try to give you an explanation but you passed out in the middle of it, and thirdly that leads into the fact that I did not knock you out, you did a fine job of that all on your Jack Jones, and there is now blood all over my floor and very possibly a dent in my antique desk. And lastly, the favour I require is for you to attempt to re-awaken your best friend, so in all technicalities I don't want you to do me a favour, YOU want you to me a favour.'

Nick had never wanted to punch someone so much in his entire life. His knuckles were actually itching. He swore violently, quick temper bubbling up furiously as it always had. But then, much as he hated to admit, Burke had a point. Well. Four points actually. The bloody man had four points. He looked up; fists clenched, lips white.

'Fine'

Burke smiled serenely, though it didn't reach his eyes, and turned and led the way out of the door. Nick stalked after him, ignoring the throbbing in his head. Once out in the corridor, he shot a glance in a shiny chrome door as they passed. Fuck. There was a deep gash, a couple of inches in length slashed across his left temple, held together by black ugly stitching. As they kept walking, he prodded it, wincing. That was going to leave one hell of a scar.

They stopped outside yet another identical door, and Burke paused and turned, a flicker of what, on someone else, Nick might have called concern passing across his face.

'Perhaps, Professor, I should re-iterate to you that this isn't a practical joke. You're about to see Stephen Hart. He isn't some figment of my imagination; he's actually in that room.'

Nick glared at him, sarcasm filling his voice,

'I didn't know you cared.'

'Then go in there, talk to him, try and get him to wake up, and for God's don't spill any more of your own blood onto the floor.'

'Fine'

Burke tapped a security code into the panel by the door, and announced his name into a small microphone that protruded. In a small, tinny voice the microphone repeated,

'Alexander Burke, cleared for all access.'

The door clicked, and swung open slightly. Nick slammed through it. The room before him, on first survey, was much the same as the room he had been contained in, although this room apparently came equipped with the unsteady beep of a heart monitor and a friendly nurse sitting in the corner. Nick nodded a greeting at her, and continued to stand by the doorway, looking at the room, as opposed to actually approaching the bed and its occupant. Despite Burke's word, he hadn't really registered exactly what it was entering this room had meant. But now it was starting to hit, and the emotions were out in full force. If this worked, Nick thought, he could have Stephen back. He could put months of grief and sadness behind him and move on, with Stephen by his side, just as they always had been. His best friend.

He looked at the nurse again and she inclined her head toward the bed, an action that quite clearly said, 'well go on then'. Nick took a deep breath, and stepped towards the bed. He stopped a few centimetres from the edge and tried to make himself look. His heart was going a mile a minute and his palms were shaking. In fact his entire body was throbbing with nervous energy. Taking another lungful of oxygen, Nick looked down.

Oh God. It was him. Lying in the bed, face of an angel, pale, thin, but very much alive. Nick reached out, almost instinctively, wanting to touch, to convince himself this wasn't some freak of his imagination. His hand brushed Stephen's unruly dark hair back from his eyes, and traced down the square line of his jaw. Stephen's skin was warm, and the stubble on his chin dragged against Nick's fingers. He was very definitely real. Nick's legs gave out and suddenly the helpful nurse from the corner of the room was there, supporting him and pushing a chair beneath him, enabling him to stay close to his friend's body. Unwilling to relinquish contact, Nick reached out and cradled one of Stephen's hands in his own, as if trying to pour some of his strength and life into his friend. The hand twitched in his, squeezing his fingers slightly, such a weak gesture from a man who had always been so strong, yet Nick found it now meant the world. And for the first time he realised he was crying.

_The void was still spinning, and he was still falling. Twisting and tumbling, limbs at impossible angles, he was hurtling fast, and faster still, down into the abyss, and he knew when he hit the bottom, it was death that would be greeting him. He had resigned himself to this fate, had even been welcoming it but then suddenly, out of the darkness, a ray of light cast its way into him. A slight pressure formed on his right hand, warmer and more comforting than the endless unfeeling void. Someone is holding his hand, and he takes all his effort to twitch the limb, desperately not wanting the nameless presence to relinquish their hold. And oddly, the simple gesture of human comfort seemed to be guiding him back. He can remember his name. He can remember his age. He can remember the ever staring blue eyes. And then someone utters his name, echoing from somewhere around him, calling out to him._

_Then the falling was slowing, until he had gone from plummeting down to gently tumbling, continually slowing until eventually it stops altogether and he hits the ground with a gentle bump. Gradually he became aware of his surroundings, the gentle, now steady beep, of hospital machinery, crisp cotton sheets beneath him, and still that warm-comforting pressure on his hand. He attempts a _

_breath, inhaling, and to his surprise it works easily, the air filling his lungs and clearing his head still further. He still can't remember anything; save for just the one memory and he is scared to open his eyes, scared of what he might see. Maybe this is what dying feels like. But the hand is still in his, still squeezing reassuringly, lending him strength. And so he opens his eyes to whatever lies before him. At first it's bright, too bright, terrifyingly so, but he forces his eyes to remain open and gradually the light recedes and the pain with it. And the first sight he sees is the same as the last he remembers. Amongst all the pain and the confusion, just that pair of bright blue eyes, glimmering with warmth and happiness, this time, as opposed to sadness and pain, and fixed on his face, warming him, strengthening him, and guiding him home._

**And this is the part where I ask you to review with a manically encouraging smile on my face. Please?**


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